timer (plus) VATS
by impossiblepluto
Summary: [(plus) heights (plus) fathers] When a mission goes wrong, Mac has to make a choice. He just hopes he didn't trade a quick death for a longer, painful one. Not a death story


He doesn't like that the iridescent numbers are blue.

It's a stupid thought to have right now. Irrational to focus on that glow in the darkness, taunting him. Telling him that he's about to fail.

The numbers on his alarm clock are blue. He's spent too many nights watching as they click forward. Tick... Tick... Tick...

Another sleepless minute passes in the middle of another sleepless night. Brain churning with missions that came too close to failure. Mind racing with half-finished formulas and chemical equations, in an attempt to distract him from the mathematical probability that he should be dead by now. Too many close calls. He's beaten the odds so many times that it is a statistical inevitability that one day, soon, he will discover a problem he can't fix; a circumstance so far beyond his control that he won't be enough. He won't have the answer or a plan. His brain will scramble for a solution and for the first time, fail to find one.

The only source of comfort in the midst of those sleepless, waking nightmares is that maybe he can still be the odds, just enough to save his team. Stall long enough so they can escape. Remove them from the blast zone.

It takes all of his focus in the middle of those nights, to fight through the fear and doubt and envision the scenario in which he still wins. Where he doesn't see Jack's body consumed by flames, or hear Riley's screams of pain while he dies.

Those long nights leave him with a pounding headache by morning. A tightness in his lungs. And a deep hatred of those mocking blue numbers, counting, tallying his moments of weakness.

The numbers on the clock in front of him click.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Backwards.

Downwards.

Faster. Counting seconds, not minutes.

Not measuring the passage of time until morning.

Instead, he's watching the countdown of his final moments in that mocking blue light, which studies have shown, disrupt sleeping patterns.

Maybe he should have bought a new alarm clock. Maybe it was the light, not memories and fears that kept him awake. A solution to his sleepless nights.

He's never needed an alarm clock to wake him. Not as a kid, and especially not now.

Nightmares wake him long before any alarm he's set. He hated the jarring noise of the buzzer.

He's going to hate the noise this timer makes when it goes off even more.

Actually, his brain supplies, helpfully, he'll be gone before he hears it. The shock waves of the blast rupturing organs. Heat searing his airways. Cooking him from the inside out. It'll be quick.

A small comfort.

But first, he needs to make sure that Jack is out.

And that the building is clear.

Sixty seconds to say goodbye.

Jack will be pissed, if, when he realizes Mac is giving up.

Fourth floor though. Stairwell on the northwest corner, opposite his current location. Even if he ran, full tilt, he'd never even make it to the lobby.

Jack might try to come in after him if he realizes. He'd never make it to Mac.

Mac's mind races. He visualizes the blueprints of the building, and weighs that against the probable destruction pattern of the bomb in front of him.

He has one idea.

He hates this idea. Multiple reasons why this might be the worst idea he's ever had. And, he's had some spectacularly bad ideas in his young life. He wipes sweaty palms against his cargo pants as adrenaline kicks in. He just won't think about it.

It's all he can think about.

"Jack, is the building clear?"

"Everyone's out. Riley's confirming it on thermals," Jack's voice crackles in his ear. "I'm heading back for you now."

"No!" Mac yells. He takes a breath, then confesses. "I'm not going to be able to disarm it."

"Where you at, hoss?" Jack's drawl thick with anxiety. He can read his partner too easily.

"Don't worry. I'll make it out. Plenty of time," Mac assures, lying through his teeth. He expects Jack to call him on it. To note how Mac's already breathing heavily. He stands, spins away from the device and jogs from the room. He almost laughs when he slams the door behind him. Like the cheap wood is going to give him an extra second.

"You're a terrible liar, Angus. I'm coming in."

"Don't," Mac pants. "I don't have time to stop and look for you because you went in the wrong door." He tears through the long corridor of the deserted building. Empty. Hollow foot falls echo in the hallway. Each step a solid thud that matches the racing in his chest. "I'll make it out."

He doesn't hear Jack's reply. Can't hear much except his ragged breath in his ears and heartbeat pulsing in his head. It's so loud in the silence of the vacant building.

Legs churning. Muscles burning. He wishes in the last few weeks he'd been running for speed, not distance.

Almost there.

In his head, he can still see each flash of the timer. Running down the clock. Running down the hall.

He tries not to think about what lies at the end of his run. If he thinks about it, he might not be able to force himself to go through with it.

_Too high, _his brain screams. It sounds like Jack.

Seconds left on the clock. He should have said goodbye just in case. There's no time now.

There's a moment of silence as he throws himself forward and hits the window center mass. Glass shattering around him. Eyes closed. Arms up to protect his face from the shards.

A cool breeze in the night air. A moment of peace.

In the second that he's airborne he feels a searing heat scorch the back of his neck. The acrid scent of singed hair. There's a whooshing sound around him, squeezing him, before shoving him towards the ground.

He prepares to land, absorb the impact. Tuck and roll.

Four stories. Forty-eight feet.

_Too high. Too high_, his brain screams. This time it sounds like him.

A fifty percent fatality rate at this height. Land wrong and he's paralyzed, or his mind destroyed by a traumatic brain injury. Or his femurs fracture and he's impaled on his own bones.

He hopes he didn't trade a quick death for a longer more painful one.

Two seconds of falling. It's an eternity. Enough time for plenty of regret.

And fear.

Infinity and then oblivion.

* * *

He hears it in the kid's voice.

This is going to be bad. Mac's going to cut it close.

Too close.

So close that he doesn't think he'll make it out. Desperate to make sure Jack doesn't come in after him.

Jack curses. He yells for Mac to answer him. "What are you doing, homie?"

Fear sends his heart racing and Mac doesn't answer. To hell with what the kid said. Jack is going after Mac.

Jack feels Riley's fingers brush against his jacket, as she realizes Jack plans to ignore Mac's instructions. She's not fast enough to stop him. He pulls away from her scrambling fingers, moving steadily towards the building.

He would never hurt her if she stood in his way, but she's not strong enough to hold him back either.

He remembers a time, not so long ago that he threatened to go through Mac when he tried to stop Jack from getting to Riley. Another time when his panic nearly overwhelmed him.

His kids are too self-sacrificing. He wonders if they've talked, made a pact that if one of them is facing certain death, the other will hold him back. Keep him from running into a futile rescue attempt.

Mac mumbles over the comms. "Too high."

"Oh god, Mac, what..." Jack's voice trails off.

There's a second to register the tinkle of glass from the window over their heads. Too quiet to be from the blast. Jack looks up, but he already knows.

A shadow hangs in the air for a moment. Too dark to identify, but he knows.

Then it's backlit by the blazing orange of the explosion. The blonde hair is unmistakable.

The ground rumbles and rolls beneath Jack, like he's on the deck of a ship in a squall.

He's screaming. He can't hear it over the thunderous explosion and the roar of the building as it caves in on itself. But he feels it tear through his throat, shredding his vocal cords. He's frozen in place. Can do nothing except watch as Mac's body twists in the air, rushing towards the ground.

Mac tumbles and rolls and Jack has a horrific front seat visualization of Mac's body crumbling from the force of the impact, mimicking the building he just escaped.

The force of the explosion, the momentum of the fall and Mac keeps rolling. Jack can only hope it's far enough from the inferno because there's no way Mac doesn't have internal injuries from a fall like that, and if Jack has to try to move him...

If Mac is even still alive.

Because as Jack runs towards the body laying on the ground, in the dim glow of the firelight, it doesn't look like Mac's chest is moving.

"No, no. Oh god, no," Jack cries racing, feet pounding. Sliding to a stop next to Mac's crumpled body. Lost in his fear and panic is the burning pain as asphalt shreds through his jeans and his knees.

Mac's eyes are open, staring blankly at the dark sky above them. Impossibly wide. Horrifically vacant.

Jack searches under Mac's jaw for a pulse. His hands shaking.

"Come on, buddy, please," he begs. The tremor in his hands almost masking the weak flutter of Mac's heartbeat. A broken body trying desperately to hold onto life.

A stuttering, shuddering gasp. Too shallow, but a breath.

The force of the landing drove every last molecule of oxygen from Mac's body, stunning his lungs. His quick, uneven panting doesn't allow for air exchange, as if his body's forgotten what to do with air. As if his lungs can't figure out how to do their job.

Mac's panicked eyes open wider now and Jack can see his friend in there now. Terrified eyes lock on Jack, begging for help.

Jack leans over his partner. His hands brace the ground on either side of Mac's head. His fingers curling as if trying to find purchase on the concrete. Twist the solid rock in his grasp. Steal that solid strength to use as his own and pass onto Mac. Anything to hold him here.

It takes everything in him to keep his hands from reaching out to cradle Mac's broken body in his arms and offer comfort.

His face leaning over Mac's. "Right here, hoss. Look right here."

A broken wheeze. Jack feels every painful gasp like he's the one trying to convince battered lungs to accept oxygen. He aches.

"Thought we had a rule about jumping out of windows?" Jack clears his throat, trying to keep his panic from clawing its way out of his chest. Mac has never needed him stronger. Never needed him more in control than right now.

Mac's mouth opens as if to protest. It's such a practiced move, the instinct to bicker. His mouth moves silently, not a spare breath to use to speak.

"Hey, no arguing. I don't really care what technicality you're going to use to tell me that you didn't actually promise," Jack shushes.

"Can't- bre- breathe," Mac pants, attempting to curl onto his side.

Jack's hand quickly moves to Mac's chest to stall his movements. It takes almost no effort on Jack's part to hold him in place. Jack's grateful, because it would kill him to use force to hold Mac still right now.

But it terrifies him about the extent of Mac's injuries. If Mac really wants to move, there's often very little Jack can do to stop him. If Mac wants to escape his partner's grip, with his strong wiry frame, he'll give Jack a run for his money.

Mac's heart beats under his hand. Too fast. The pull of fear and adrenaline. But it feels steady, despite the trauma. Jack doesn't dare press harder. Mac's chest feels solid. Doesn't feel like the kid's ribs were stove in, at least not the ones beneath his hands. Blood still pumps to and from his heart.

Jack breathes a small sigh of relief. Watching the rise and fall of his hands on Mac's chest. Quick, still shallow breaths. He frowns.

There's something wrong with the way Mac's chest moves.

Jack can't stop his fingers, slipping from the left side of Mac's chest towards the right.

Rice krispies.

Jack closes his eyes as dread floods through him.

The crackle of air under Jack's fingers. Escaping Mac's lung and bubbling under the skin. Crepitus. He hates that it's a vocabulary word that he knows. Hates all the reasons he knows it.

He carefully opens Mac's shirt. Bruising already shadowing across his ribs. Mac struggles weakly under Jack's hand. Too weak to even writhe in pain.

Jack chokes. "Shhh. Shhh." He comforts, blinking hard. His eyes don't leave Mac's body. "Hey, Ri?" What's the ETA on an ambulance?"

"About eight minutes out." Jack is so proud of how steady and calm her voice sounds in the chaos.

"Please-" the word a breathy plea that breaks Jack's heart. Blue eyes, clouded with pain, with fear, staring up at him. Begging. Trusting Jack. Complete faith that Jack can fix this, will save him.

Jack nods, making a decision and praying that it's the right one. Begging Mac to forgive him if he's wrong.

"Okay, Mac," Jack leans back over Mac's face, commanding his attention. "We're gonna move you, but you gotta let us do all the work, okay? I know I usually do all the work anyway, so this should be a piece of cake." Jack doesn't take his eyes off Mac's face. "Riley, I need your help. We gotta roll him on his side to ease his breathing. But we've got to do it in one motion, okay? Support his head. Try to keep his spine straight."

Riley bites her lip moving next to Jack. "I thought you weren't supposed to move a vic- move someone with a suspected spinal injury?"

"A-B-C's, Ri. He can't breathe, and he can't wait eight minutes." Jack quickly instructs Riley on how to hold and roll Mac. Then moves to support Mac's head, keeping his neck and spine aligned as they turn him.

Mac sighs in relief when he's positioned on his right side.

Jack settles behind Mac. Strong arms stabilizing his head and neck. Like a father cradling his newborn's head, offering protection and support. Mac entrusts his life to Jack every day, but this is tangible. This faith in Jack's guardianship. Mac completely gives up control. His life in the palms of Jack's hands.

Jack mentally shakes that thought away, not daring to make the actually movement, lest he jostle Mac. He needs his head clear, or that thought will overwhelm him. Mac needs his strength right now, not his emotions. He glances at Riley. Her eyes wide and her face pale in the glowing firelight. She looks about as scared as Jack feels.

"Riley," Jack whispers, waiting until she pulls her eyes from Mac's face. "Keep an eye on his fingernails and lips. Tell me if they're turning blue, okay?"

She nods, squinting in the dim light of the inferno, then pulls out her phone and clicks on the flashlight.

"Don't let him get his hands on your phone. Even like this, he'd probably still try to break it."

Riley chokes on a harsh laugh. "He's never broken my phone."

"Oh, Jack's phone is the only one that's fun to break, huh? What happened to rule one: We don't touch Jack Dalton's stuff?"

Mac grunts under Jack's hands.

"Are his pupils equal?" Jack asks, giving Riley another task, an attempt to distract her from the horror of the scene.

Riley lowers her head to see Mac's eyes, and raising the light. Mac flinches.

"I'm sorry," Riley whispers, her hand reaches out to hold Mac steady, to offer comfort, and then freezes, as if scared to cause any more pain to her brother.

Jack tightens his hold on Mac's head. "No, no. Don't move, bud. Just looking to see if I should start making you name the peridot table."

There's a rush of breath, then an almost inaudible whimper from Mac.

"Bad joke," Jack apologizes.

Riley looks up at Jack. At his nod she warns Mac. "I'm going to check your eyes, Mac."

Slowly she raises the light. This time, Mac holds still.

"They're reacting. Equal. Maybe dilated? It's hard to tell," Riley gestures broadly to the scene.

"That's good," Jack assures. "You did good."

Riley rests back on her heels, biting her lip.

"You can hold his hand," Jack encourages, knowing she and Mac could use a little comfort.

She looks up, unconvinced. Then glances back towards Mac. His eyes half closed in pain. She gently slides her fingers into Mac's, slowly, afraid to touch him, to hurt him further by placing her hand in his. But he curls his longer fingers around hers in a reassuring grasp.

* * *

Jack stays.

If there's one constant in Mac's life, it's Jack. It's that Jack always stays.

Jack stays in Afghanistan on day sixty-four.

Jack stays after, when they're home and Mac is lost in a life he never started living. Picking up pieces of a world that continued without him.

Jack stays when the nights are too long, and the reminders of failure too strong.

When DXS comes knocking.

When Jakarta was a failure.

After Cairo.

After Lake Como.

When no one else stays. When Nicki lies and Thornton betrays them.

Each time Murdoc tries to grab him, Jack comes for him

When the nightmares are too much, Jack parks himself at Mac's side and refuses to budge.

When Mac tries to push him away, Jack stays.

When James returns and Mac runs. Jack runs with him. Across the country, around the world. Looking for meaning. Looking for himself.

When James begs him to return, coerces Mac, plays upon his valiant heart, and desire to save the world, Jack follows him. To James' dismay. They return together, a package deal, as always. Jack toes the line. It nearly kills him, but he does it for Mac. He keeps his mouth shut, and head down. A steady reassuring presence, ever in Mac's corner.

Kovacs resurfaces, and James tries to drive a wedge between them. Offers Jack a chance to redeem himself, to wipe some of the red out of his ledger. Make up for the failure of a twelve year search with the opportunity to lead a task force.

This time, Jack tells him what he can do with that offer, and he stays.

When Mac lies on the ground, broken and bleeding, chest rattling, and death comes calling. Jack stays. He holds on tight to his boy and says not on my watch you sonuvabitch.

There's a wet squelch that has Jack turning toward the parking lot, wondering how the firetrucks managed to arrive, set up their hoses and start fighting the fire without him noticing. But the view behind him is dark and empty. The sickly, wet noise, slurping the last of a milkshake through a straw doesn't come from behind him, but underneath him.

Jack kneels. He can kneel for hours, holding position without so much as a muscle tremble. He doesn't know that he's ever been more grateful for his sniper training and steady hands than in this moment.

* * *

"Male, mid twenties, jumped four stories, with possible secondary blast injuries. Increasing respiratory distress. Respirations thirty-six. Eighty-four percent on fifteen liters, non-rebreather. Crackles and crepitus over the right side. He's not moving any air over there."

Jack runs along side the gurney, his hand curled around one of Mac's fingers. The only place he can touch around the straps, the medical equipment, and injuries. Just enough to let Mac know he's there. He's hanging on as long as they let him. Jumped into the back of the ambulance before they could even ask if anyone was riding with. Sticking close until his presence is a hindrance.

Through a doorway, bright lights overhead, a flutter of activity.

"Draw ABGs, cranial, cervical, thoracic and pelvic x-rays. CT on standby."

He gives that finger a squeeze, and lets go, as the medical team descends on his boy and he is pushed further into the room, backed into the corner, out of the way. Close enough to see the trauma.

"Pulse 126; BP 164/92."

"Let's move him over. One- Two- Three," the team works in tandem, sliding Mac, still strapped to the backboard from the paramedic's cot to the gurney. Mac lets out a surprised cry.

"Did he lose consciousness?"

"In and out the whole way over."

Jack's eyes focus on Mac's chest, the way he struggles, despite the straps still holding him still. How he gasps for air even though the flow meter on the wall indicates the oxygen is turned all the way up.

"Type and screen him. Tell blood bank to have a couple of units on standby. Get an H and H too."

They make Jack leave the room when x-ray comes.

He gently pats Mac's foot as he walks by. His heart aches at Mac's wide eyes, staring at the ceiling, focused on each breath he forces into his battered lungs.

Jack collapses against the wall outside the exam room, strength sapped. His head drops back against the plaster. He lets out a slow shaky breath, letting go of the tension with it. Trying to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw.

"Jack!"

He straightens upon hearing his name. Ever the soldier, the bodyguard, on alert.

Riley weaves between computers on wheels, around carts and medical equipment.

"They're doing some x-rays," Jack says, answering Riley's unasked question. "Lots of x-rays. Head to toe."

"How is he?"

"Chest is still rattling. They've got the oxygen up all the way but his lips are a little blue." Jack scrubs a hand over his face. Then the side of his fist hits the wall next to him. "He looks scared."

Riley pulls him into a hug. Jack immediately holds on tight, his hand slides up to hold her head, like he always does when he hugs his kids. He freezes midmotion at the memory of supporting Mac's head.

"Did they say anything yet?" Riley's voice is muffled against Jack's chest.

He shakes his head, not trusting his voice quite yet. He doesn't know how long they stand in the hallway, the rest of the emergency department bustling around them, but their little piece of floor is a sanctuary. Until the door to the exam room opens again, the portable x-ray whirs as the tech pushes it from the room.

Jack releases his grip on Riley and heads towards the door when he notices Riley doesn't follow. He turns to her with a questioning look.

"It was bad enough..." Riley swallows. "I'm scared to see him in the light."

Jack nods. His eyes reddened from smoke and tears. He looks torn, desperate to return to Mac's side, but he doesn't want to let go of Riley.

Riley sees the indecision. She grabs his hand, squares her shoulder and with a deep breathe marches into the room. Her brother needs his family.

* * *

A tube is in Mac's chest, draining the pleural space between his chest wall and his lung. Allowing the lung to expand, helping to keep it open.

Jack's already watched them change the atrium once, because dark red blood fills the chamber too quickly.

Nausea rises. Jack breathes heavily, his fist presses against his mouth. No wonder the noises in Mac's chest sounded like an overstuffed washing machine. He was suffocating.

Pneumohemothorax. Jack hates new vocabulary words. Air and blood leaking into Mac's chest cavity, the pleural space, compressing his lung. A liter, almost enough fluid to fill a four pack of their favorite beer.

The nurse measures it. The output. Then adjusts the roller clamp to slow down the drainage, not wanting to further damage the abused lung. Mac's a tall, lanky athlete, already at risk for spontaneous pneumothorax, just because of his body type and lifestyle. The trauma more than doubles that risk going forward. Jack didn't want to know those facts either.

Video Assisted Thorascopic Surgery. The emerging best practice, Dr. Elona informed Jack proudly, telling him about the risks and benefits of the surgery. Mac's hand in Jack's as the medical team worked around him, prepping Mac for the procedure, starting an additional IV line, and hanging fluids, and a dose of antibiotics to be administered just before the first incision. Scrubbing his battered body to decrease the risk of infection.

Jack doesn't want to know about advances in medical treatment. He's grateful for them, but doesn't want to know first hand how it's saving lives and improving recovery times.

Two hours for the VATS; while they have in under anesthesia an orthopod reduces the fracture in his right arm. Another hour in recovery before they get Mac settled in his room in the ICU, and allow Jack to see him.

Not an inch of skin on Mac's bare chest isn't purple. The bruising dips beneath the blanket, but Jack's already seen how it wraps around his hip, into his back, down his leg. A layer of road rash on top of the mottled skin.

The right side of Mac's face a mess of bruised weeping skin that Jack missed in the dim light at the scene.

Mac's propped up in the bed. To ease his breathing, they tell Jack. A too large mask covers the lower portion of Mac's abraded face, rhythmically hissing. Prophylactic, intermittent bipap, they tell him, excited to quote studies about the benefits of the external ventilator aiding in lung re-expansion. Improved recovery time than without a vent. Gentler on Mac's damaged lung than an actual vent. Less risk for vent-acquired pneumonia. Less traumatic for the patient, which Jack thinks is good, because this whole ordeal has been traumatic enough. Mac can spend time off the bipap as he wakes.

"No fair staying asleep because you're trying to avoid all the Darth Vader jokes," Jack says, leaning forward to study Mac's sleeping face.

The only response is the hiss of the bipap.

"They'll keep."

* * *

He stares at the blue numbers, glowing in the semi-darkness. They don't make any sense. He wracks his brain, trying to remember what kind of projects he's working on. What components he might have pilfered from the clock to make it flash ninety-four percent in the corner. What type of reading he might have been trying to achieve that makes the screen steadily blink numbers in the mid-sixties.

He must have messed something up, because everything on the screen is almost too blurry to read. He starts to reach towards the clock, but a spike of agony stops him. He can't hold back a gasp that feels like shards of glass tearing through his chest. A rushing sound through his ears as his vision turns gray.

"Easy, Mac."

Jack's voice is soft, far away, almost lost in the haze of pain.

He can't catch his breath. The blue numbers on the screen blink faster. Ninety-one, eighty-nine, eighty-six.

"Breathe," Jack coaches. "Come on, hoss, you can do it."

Can't do it. Can't.

"Yes, you can," Jack's hand on his cheek. His voice stern. "Slow now. In and out." Jack exaggerates a breath in through his nose and out through pursed lips. Mac tries to mimic. "Good boy. Just like that."

It hurts.

"I know it hurts, but you're doing so good."

Jack can read his mind.

Jack laughs. "Not quite. But I can decipher your mumbles."

Oh.

"Hush up for a minute and breath. Or they're gonna want to try that noisy bipap again. You finally graduated to a nasal cannula for a while. And Riley's gonna be pissed if they go back to bipap. She's tired of all my Star Wars jokes."

Mac frowns in mild confusion, but continues following Jack's directions.

"Don't worry, I've written them down to share with you later. Some of them are really good. I'm gonna send 'em to Disney. They're better than the last couple of scripts they've had."

His eyes are heavy.

"That's okay, hoss. You aren't missin' much around here. Just go back to sleep."

* * *

It hurts.

The simple act of breathing, usually lost, faded in the background of daily life, and he feels like he has to focus to draw each breath. Each painful breath.

They keep making him sit up. That hurts.

He's lost track of how many people come in to listen to his chest. Each time he hopes maybe that will be enough, each time they make him sit up, lean forward, stethescopes pressed against his back encouraging deep breaths.

It hurts.

Jack sits in front of him. Mac's head resting on Jack's shoulder, leaning against his chest for strength. Mac's breath puffing against Jack's neck.

"Cough," countless, faceless nurses and techs tell him.

"Come on, Mac, you gotta cough, buddy. Clear out those lungs," Jack whispers in his ear, holding him up when all Mac wants to do is collapse in pain.

He understands the science behind sitting him up, getting him to cough and breathe deeply. Knows that it will help him in the long run but it's hard to focus on anything but the present and the immediate pain that twists in his chest with the force of even his weakest cough.

Jack holds him through the pain.

"Good," they praise, but it means nothing in the haze. They settle him back against the pillows, adjust the nasal cannula.

His nurse offers him pain medication. It's a balance, she explains as she takes his vital signs again. Narcotics depress his respirations, they have to watch him closely.

He hates the sickly floating feeling. It's almost worse than the pain.

His respiratory therapist gives him nebulizer treatments in between stints on the bipap.

He hates the bipap.

Jack stays.

Between check ups, and treatments, every time Mac wakes from sleep Jack is there. Ready to be a solid presence, a comforting hand, a joke that Mac has trouble following through the pain and the meds.

In his haze, he recognizes a steady filter of his teammates through the room. Riley's hand brushing sweaty hair back from his warm forehead. A steady buzz of conversation between Bozer and Jack; Leanna pulls the sheet up over his chest when he shivers.

The one constant is Jack.

* * *

Mac sleeps a lot.

It reminds Jack of Lake Como.

Not the first couple of days after Mac was shot and nearly drowned. Those first few days were spent on a ventilator. Breathing for him, because Mac's body couldn't handle the strain of his injuries. The trauma of a bullet tearing through his chest.

Jack really is grateful for medical advances. The ventilator was much scarier than the bipap.

Still doesn't want to know about those advances, though.

Mac will probably get a kick out of hearing the studies, statistics and medical jargon once he wakes enough to appreciate it. Jack files the information away to pull out later. Use his new found knowledge to tease Mac. Eventually.

Maybe.

He still doesn't tease Mac about Como, though.

But this puts him right back in those long hours in the hospital. Reminds him of day three. After they weaned Mac from the vent and let the sedation start to lift. When eyelids would crack just enough to see blue irises, still too drugged, too out of it to be panicked, but searching the room, landing on Jack and then slowly closing again. Comforted by his partner's presence.

A nasal cannula is in Mac's nose, that he's leaving mostly alone right now. Jack's only had to catch Mac's hand once so far.

Mac didn't mind the cannula so much back then. Still disliked the feeling of it tickling his nose, still reached for it occasionally.

Nowadays Mac is usually more insistent when he reaches for it. His brain tells him the brush of air against his face is actually nitrogen and a drug cartel is torturing him. Jack sticking close by helps, but doesn't completely ease the nightmares. He's grateful that at least for now, it doesn't seem to be distressing his partner.

The team makes sure Jack doesn't spend too much time sitting alone.

Riley spends nearly the first twenty-four hours with Jack. Disappearing into the hall and returning with snacks and red rimmed eyes. Steps up and takes over keeping Matty and Bozer updated on the otherside of the country.

Mac sleeps most of those twenty-four hours, unless a therapist or nurse comes in to roust him from slumber for treatments or to examine him. Which they do on a regular basis.

When he's awake Jack can't help but try to engage him. Those exhausted blue eyes don't stay opened long, but he gives a half-hearted smirk at Jack's sarcastic comments. He seems to be following the threads of conversation at least a little. Right now, Jack will take anything he can get.

* * *

Riley's dozing on the cot in the room when Bozer and Leanna arrive, the first time she's really slept.

It takes some convincing to get Riley to leave. She's not sure she's ready to be more than a few feet away from Mac yet. She can't stop the overtired tears from flowing at the idea of leaving him. Eventually, Leanna takes her to the hotel and Bozer takes the second watch with Jack.

Mac's brow furrows. Muscles twitch. He flinches and grimaces with each small movement.

Jack sweeps a hand through Mac's hair. The motion smooths the frown from Mac's face and he settles. His sleep appears more peaceful, at least for a moment.

"He's dreaming about falling," Jack murmurs. "Has been, off and on."

"I still can't..." Bozer shakes his head. "He really jumped out a window?"

Jack nods. "Four floors up."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

They sit quietly, lost in thought.

"Was he always scared of heights?"

"Fifth grade. Mac is nine, he skipped a grade, so he's a whole year younger than everyone else. Small for his age, and smarter than everybody. It didn't win him a lot of friends. So Donny Sandoz, dares him to climb the tallest tree in Mission city. It was a big deal in fifth grade. When Mac refused Donny said he should have been named after a chicken instead of a cow."

Jack winces. He's guilty of so many hamburger jokes at Mac's expense. Occasionally only now, and used in affection, but his conscience reminds him that in those early days they were as intentionally cruel as Donny. Still, he wishes he'd hit the still-a-bully-Donny harder when they'd visited Mission City a few years ago.

"He spent weeks practicing climbing that tree. Tells Donny he's going to climb it. Friday after school, right before spring break. The whole grade comes to watch. It's windy, and there's a storm blowing up, and I remember Penny Parker trying to talk him out of it. But Donny called him a chicken again. So up Mac goes. Like a monkey. Keeps climbing; higher than anyone's ever gotten before. Until he gets stuck."

"Aw, Mac," Jack whispers, looking back towards his partner. It's surprisingly easy to imagine Mac as an independent, stubborn nine year old kid.

"He's trying to climb down, almost makes it, but by now it's raining and windy. I'm not sure how far he actually fell. Watching, it felt like hundreds of feet. Like he was falling for hours."

Jack swallows hard. The image of Mac hanging in the air too fresh. Hovering for a moment before the explosion and gravity exerted their force over his inert body.

"It was the next day before he told anybody what happened," Bozer remembers. "I don't know how his dad missed it because his face was already bruising. And even I knew there was something wrong with his arm."

Jack growls at the idea that Mac could have some home from school bruised and soaked to the skin and his dad didn't notice. The man has the nerve to call himself Mac's father. His fist clenches.

"Jack?" Mac's soft voice breaks through Jack's fugue of anger. "What's wrong?"

Jack takes a deep breath, calming himself. "Nothing buddy. Go back to sleep."

"You're upset," Mac's voice is thin, breathless. Even drugged as he is, he's picking up on Jack's irritation and it's distressing him.

"Bozer was telling me how you came by your fear of heights," Jack's voice low and soothing. He lays his hand on Mac's shoulder, thumb caressing bare skin.

"Broke my arm," Mac frowns as he looks down at his right arm. Casted above his elbow all the way down to his fingers. His face puzzled when he looks up at Jack. "Again?"

"And didn't tell anyone, I heard," Jack teases mildly. "I guess somethings never change."

"Dad was mad. Had to leave his project. Take me to the doctor." Jack almost misses the catch in Mac's voice, it's so soft. "Thought that's why he left. Fewer interruptions."

A stricken look crosses Bozer's face. "He had the cast on his tenth birthday a week later."

Jack doesn't know if he wants to cry or punch something. Probably both. And that something is probably James' face. Every time he hears a story of Mac's upbringing it drives a new stake into his heart.

"He left because he's an idiot. Squandered the best thing in his life and he was too stupid to realize it," Jack says. The corner of Mac's mouth pulls up in a half-drugged smile. "You hear me, slick?"

"I- I hear you."

"You are the best thing in my life, Mac," Jack says, watching the blue eyes drift shut. "I don't even want to imagine my life without you in it."

* * *

James visits too. As if summoned by the challenge in Jack's words.

It's silent in the room. Even Mac's little puffs of painful breath quieting. Waiting and watching.

Jack maintains a relaxed posture in the recliner pulled up close to the bed. His hand resting lightly on Mac's left wrist. His eyes don't flick from Mac for a second, but he is acutely aware of James' position in the room, each breath he takes, how many times he blinks. Jack's chair blocks James from coming up too close. And a pillow under Mac's right side angles him towards Jack. His right arm casted from mid bicep to fingers. The weeping road rash on his shoulder thickly wrapped in gauze. Jack is pleased that there is no visible unmarred skin for James to try to touch.

Jack fumes. Remembering the way Mac looked at the cast on his arm. Locked in a childhood memory where James berated him for interrupting his work. Where a nine year old kid spend a day in agonizing pain because he was scared of his father. Jack can't fathom that.

Eighteen years wasn't enough for Mac to put aside thoughts that he might be a burden, willingness to keep his injuries to himself. The idea that he needs to be useful to be valuable. That his health and safety is secondary to just about everything.

That wasn't a behavior learned in a day. Not when it's buried so deeply into the core of who Mac is.

Jack works hard to keep his muscles loose, as though completely indifferent to the man sitting across from him. Promising himself he'll do nothing that will get him banned from Mac's room and the hospital. No matter what he portrays, Jack isn't a hot head. Not really. Occasionally his fears will get the better of him. His anger bubbling over the surface. Most, who can't see past the carefully crafted exterior, will never notice the calculating glint in Jack's eyes, just under the sparkle of humor that he used to throw them off.

He couldn't be a Delta, a sniper, an agent if he went off every time he got angry, despite his propensity to hulk out when the situation calls for it.

James visits for twenty minutes and seventeen seconds, which is longer than Jack would have wagered if he were a betting man.

He's never been more relieved to see him go.

Jack's jaw is so tight he thinks it might crack.

Riley arrives breathless a few moments later. So soon after James left that she must have passed him in the hallway.

Jack quirks an eyebrow at her. "Worried about what you'd find in here?"

She shrugs and settles on the armrest of his recliner. "He wasn't bleeding so he couldn't have done anything too stupid."

Jack slides an arm around her in a half hug.

* * *

The first time the physical therapist and nurse get Mac out of bed, they banish Jack from the room.

"Tight quarters," the nurse explains but Jack knows the truth. He's been in this scenario a time or twenty. He knows it's going to be painful. Even sitting up has been painful for Mac so far. He leans heavily against Jack's shoulders when they force him upright. It takes everything in Jack not to tell them to leave the kid alone. That the staff is going to have to harden their hearts and force him to pivot to the chair, because letting Mac lay in the bed is only going to hurt him in the long run. And Jack doesn't have it in him to watch that.

The nurse directs him to a lounge down the hall, which Jack ignores, wanting to be close. But after the first muffled cry through closed doors, Jack forces himself to hunt for that crappy hospital coffee.

Jack was never a big coffee drinker, not even in his younger days. He knows some of his fellow agents and snipers used it to stay alert on longer ops. The caffeine made his trigger finger twitchy, and surveillance on a bladder full of coffee wasn't pleasant.

Still, he used to enjoy a pot of aromatic, expensive beans on a day off.

Until too many cups of bitter hospital coffee, in facilities around the world put him mostly off the bean juice. They all use the same fake instant brew.

Drinking coffee is like a punishment. Reserved for the moments when the missions went to hell and he failed in his role of protector.

Jack fills two styrofoam cups, adding cream and sweetener to one of them, an attempt to keep the acid swill from burning at the back of his throat and causing heartburn when it hits his mostly empty stomach. Stirring the blend slowly.

"Bang."

Jack doesn't flinch.

"The Jack Dalton I know would have stopped me before I got on the elevator."

Turning slowly, a cup in each one, he holds the undoctored beverage out. "You still take it black?"

Desi raises an eyebrow, accepting the cup. "Lucky."

Jack scoffs. "I knew you were here."

"Did you though? Or is your situational awareness compromised because it's been forty-eight hours since you've actually slept?"

"There's a cot in the room."

"And I'm sure you've been using that. Not sitting in a chair at MacGyver's bedside. Staying within arms reach."

Jack takes a slow measured sip of his coffee.

"Matty pulled me from rotation, I'm assigned to your team exclusively for the next week." Desi says. She swallows a mouthful of hot, bitter coffee without flinching. "I'll take the next watch."

Jack shakes his head.

"Thought this was why you brought me onboard? An extra set of eyes to watch your team's back."

"He's just starting to wake up for longer periods. I can't leave him."

"You keep up like this you're going to end up in the bed next to him."

Jack ignores her. Drinks his coffee. Until the nurse lets Jack know that Mac is settled into the chair, and they hope to have him sit up for at least an hour before he returns to his bed to rest. Not wanting to fatigue him.

"You don't look so bad, kid," Jack says, walking into the room. "You look strong enough to pull the ears off a gundark."

A small, almost shy smile crosses Mac's face, as he splints his chest with a pillow. "Thanks to you."

"Nah, junior, thanks to you," Jack's voice thick with emotion. He's not exactly startled by the tears filling his eyes. They've been hiding just under his lids, spilling over at the most in opportune times. Like now. He blinks quickly, looking up at the corner of the room, trying to slam the lid shut on the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.

A hiss of pain draws his gaze back to Mac, who's struggling to sit forward in the chair, reaching out towards Jack with his shaky left arm.

"Hey, hey, hoss," Jack says moving forward into arm's length of Mac. "Where you going? What do you need?"

"You."

The single word is Jack's undoing. The tears spill down his cheeks, through two days of stubble. His abraded knees crack against the faux wood floor next to Mac's chair.

"Are you okay?" Mac's voice quiet. His hand slides around the back of Jack's neck, giving a light squeeze. A comforting motion he learned from the man in front of him.

Jack scrubs a hand roughly across his eyes. "I'm not the one with a tube in his chest, bud."

"It might come out later."

"You let them do that, okay? Don't try taking it out yourself."

Mac flashes an unamused look which causes Jack to smile.

Jack rises from the floor, his legs shakier than he'd like to admit.

Mac frowns while watching him. "I don't think my legs shook that much, and I was in bed for the last three days."

Jack tries to wave off his concern. Desi doesn't let him.

"That's why I'm here," she says, stepping in to the room.

Mac sighs. "Here to take your turn babysitting me?"

"No, actually. You, I sort of trust. I'm on Dalton duty."

That gets a laugh from Mac. Or it would if it didn't hurt so much.

"The nurse said you're getting back into bed in an hour," Desi directs the first part of her sentence towards Mac before turning to face his partner. "Which means, Jack, you have one hour to visit before you go to the hotel and sleep for eight."

"Four," Jack bargains.

"Jack," Mac's tone is warning.

"Six," Desi counters, crossing her arms "Asleep. In a bed. For six hours. And you take a shower."

It looks for a moment like Jack might argue. Provide a counter offer. Desi takes a step closer to him. In his present state, he's not sure he could take Desi and he will never live it down if he tries and loses.

"Deal."

* * *

Jack returns just over seven hours later. Mac is up in the chair again. Riley sits across the tray table from him, a deck of cards on the table split evenly between them, but they aren't playing. Heads leaning close, conspiring.

Without missing a beat, the duo pick up their respective decks, pretending to be engaged in a rousing game of War when he crosses the threshold.

Jack's eyes narrow at the innocent looks they sport. Mac goes as far as acting surprised that Jack is back already. He doesn't call them on their poor acting, or suspicious performances, but instead files the information away. Deciding if the pair of them are plotting, he'll enlist Bozer and hopefully by default, Leanna to his side.

Actually, Leanna is a wildcard. She might side with Riley and Mac. Desi probably will too. He's going to be outmaneuvered, out plotted by his own team. He's just happy Mac inspires that kind of loyalty.

And it does his heart good to see the two of them so close and comfortable with each other. A small part of him, that he tries to ignore, worries about dividing his attention between them. That there are unresolved feelings of jealousy, hurt from being abandoned as a little girl and replaced in her role as surrogate kid. Or that Mac would feel like his place in Jack's life was usurped when Riley came back into it. But the two of them grabbed onto each other, like the two lonely only children they were and held on tight. Their bond stronger than some siblings that grew up together. It makes Jack's heart happy to watch them together. Blond hair, and dark curls bent close together.

And Jack also tries to ignore those proud, paternal feelings, burying them deep, because it feels like it's giving himself too much credit over his place in their lives.

"Who's winning?"

"Mac."

"Riley."

They answer simultaneously.

"Mac's won more rounds, but I'm winning this game," Riley exchanges a look with Mac. A shifty, guilty look.

Jack's eyes narrow and he's just about to call them on their lie. "Hey, you're missing something!"

Mac's smile is tired but happy. "Less than fifty milliliters of output in the last twenty-four hours. They clamped the chest tube right after you left. Took an x-ray six hours later and since I didn't have a build up of fluid, they pulled it."

"Right here in the room," Riley says. "They let me watch."

Jack glances around, taking in the other changes that have occurred since he left. "Your friend is missing too," Jack mimics the hissing of the bipap.

Mac gestures to the papers stacked on the edge of the table. "Studies say that there's no correlation for improved outcomes in the use of prophylactic bipap after seventy-two hours. We're already long passed that."

"You've been awake for a couple hours and you're already getting your geek on," Jack teases. "So no more," Jack Darth Vader breathes again. "Mac, I am your father."

Mac and Riley exchange another sudden look and Jack wonders if he overstepped with the joke.

"Yeah, thank goodness," Riley rolls her eyes. "You're lucky you slept through most of the Vader jokes, Mac. It was getting unbearable. Now you can go back to quote John McClane."

"Yippee-ki-yay-m-"

"Maybe, they'll let me go home at the end of the week," Mac interrupts.

"Really?" Concern evident in Jack's voice.

"It's mostly going to be pain management, and PT. And I'll sleep better at home."

"I've heard those words before," Jack grouses.

"I'll take it easy," Mac promises.

"Heard that one before too," Jack says, raising an eyebrow. "I definitely want to talk to your doctor again before she releases you. I want her to know about the kind of stunts you pull on a regular basis."

"She met me because I dove out a window. I think she has an idea."

"Well, then I'm gonna ask her for a detailed list of exactly what you can and can't do."

* * *

Mac glares at the clock face. The blue numbers mocking him as they click forward. It's too early to get up.

Pain and nightmares keep him awake, watching minutes turn into hours and night into dawn

He tries to reach behind the nightstand to unplug the device, but the motion pulls at his chest and he bites back a cry of pain. He rests back against his pillows, slowly forcing air into his lungs.

He closes his eyes as his vision swims. A shaky exhale between pursed lips. Focusing on taking slow, deep breaths, as the pain subsides. He scowls at the offending alarm clock. He'll ask Bozer or Jack to disconnect it for him later. He'll enjoy dismantling it and scavenging for parts.

A rattle of pots in the kitchen, and he can hear Bozer shushing the pans and hushed cursing at the noise they make. Mac smiles. A few more deep breaths and he eases his body from the bed.

_Keep breathing,_ he can hear Jack's encouragement; reminding him of his tendency to hold his breath through the painful motions of moving. He sits on the side of the bed, grabbing a pillow to splint his protesting ribs. Fluid settles overnight, and he runs through his list of breathing exercises to clear his lungs. He has a check up tomorrow that he's dreading. The first of many before he's anywhere close to field ready, but he wants to show them how much better he's doing in just a week. To set a precedent and encourage an early return to work, even if it's just in the lab. Jack's insisting on coming to his appointment. Zero surprise there, but he did get Dr. Elona to write out a list of detailed restrictions, which he hasn't shared in it's entirety with Mac yet. Mac has a feeling that list will also be coming to his follow up appointment tomorrow.

When he's finished with the exercises he's nearly sweating from exertion. He's tempted to lay back down and try to rest. Instead he slowly makes his way to the kitchen.

"What are you doing up already?" Bozer scolds as soon as Mac enters the room.

"Couldn't sleep," Mac says while heading for the coffee pot.

"Big day today," Bozer says, as if Mac didn't know. "Long, probably emotional. Maybe you should take a nap."

"I just woke up."

"Coffee will keep you from taking that nap."

"There's a lot to do," Mac protests.

"I've enlisted help," Bozer steps in front of Mac. "Leanna and Riley will be here soon. Desi's hitting the farmer's market for fresh fruit."

"But this is my... thing. I can't ask you guys to do all the work."

"This is our thing." Bozer says. "I mean, it's mostly yours. Well, yours and Riley's, but we're all on board and want to help. Besides, who else are you gonna get to cook? You want to poison everyone? I think today is going to be memorable enough as it is."

Mac rolls his eyes.

"Go. Rest. If we need help we'll let you know."

Reluctantly, Mac heads towards the living room. He settles on the couch. He has no intention of trying to take a nap. He's too nervous about what he has planned for today.

* * *

"Mac!" The front door flies open, as Jack rushes through. Heart in his chest at the text he'd received from Mac asking him to come. He'd planned to head over to Mac's place. Spend the day there, but had taken his time lounging in bed, and bumming around his apartment. He kicked himself when he got the message. It was innocuous enough, but that didn't stop the fear coursing through him.

He's not even sure how many traffic laws he broke in his haste to get to the house.

He enters the kitchen and freezes as he looks towards the living room.

The kitchen peninsula is loaded with a carbohydrate feast. Bozer outdid himself. A waffle bar. More syrups and toppings than Jack's ever seen in his life. Platters of muffins; it looks like they have everything from double chocolate chip to cranberry walnut.

Jack smells bacon sizzling and hears the snap of grease in the frying pan. The laughter and teasing stops at his entrance.

Mac looks up, in guilty surprise, where he's supervising the sign that Leanna and Riley are hanging over the couch. Only half the words visible.

_Happy Father's_

Jack's brain shuts down. His heart plummets to his toes.

It's stupid. He's stupid.

He has no right to feel this way, this all encompassing disappointment churning in his gut. A gaping hole in his chest.

Of course, first father's day that Mac and James have had any type of relationship. Of course, Mac would want to do something for his father. Mac's a good kid. He's put a lot of work into trying to have a civil relationship with the man. That man doesn't deserve a kid like Mac.

He wouldn't want Jack here. It confuses things. Muddies the waters. Jack's been a wedge between Mac and his father, making their relationship more difficult. Which is why the rest of the team is here, helping to get things ready. Mac wouldn't feel like he could ask Jack for help in the preparations.

It would have killed Jack to help. He would have, if Mac asked. He'd do anything that Mac asked of him.

He just wishes Mac would have said something. Warned him.

He's being stupid again. Mac shouldn't feel like he needs to warn Jack about reconnecting with his dad. Jack practically begged the kid for years to make an effort to find him. Supported the search all along. Has no idea that Jack feels a protective jealousy over his own place in Mac's life. Doesn't know that he and James have been circling each other like rival wolfpack leaders for the last year.

He thought they were taking the rebuilding of their relationship slow though. Didn't realize James would have warranted a Father's Day brunch.

Maybe this near death experience got Mac thinking. The same way that near death experience in Hawaii convinced him to celebrate his birthday.

Maybe almost losing Mac inspired a change in James.

He hopes James doesn't disappoint the kid again.

Jack might have to kill him if he disappoints Mac. He could probably do it quietly, hide the body, but doesn't know if he could keep that secret from Mac. And it would definitely complicate his relationship with Mac

It's like the entire room has frozen in time.

Jack should say something. Apologize for interrupting. Offer his assistance to finish hanging the sign that Riley and Leanna hold, still half-folded between them. Instead, he just stands there, mouth gaping, unsure for maybe the first time in his life the words to say, or actions to take.

A shy smile crosses Mac's face as he crosses the living room.

Jack glances behind him. Maybe in his rushed panic he missed James following him into the house. But there's no one behind him, except Bozer moving away from the stove to watch the scene unfold.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," Jack's voice sounds far away in his own ears.

Mac's smile dims a little as he stops a foot away from Jack, watching his face. "You... uh, you got here fast."

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "I thought something might be wrong. You- uh, you okay?"

Mac nods.

Jack nods, eyes roaming the room self-consciously. "I don't want to interrupt..." He repeats. He sees the way Mac's face clouds. Jack's mind is racing. Mac did text him and ask him to come. Maybe Mac wanted him here for moral support. Jack squares his shoulders. He can do that for Mac. He's always told himself he would do anything for Mac. If the kid wants him here, he'll stick around. Put on his gregarious persona and keep the conversation flowing through the awkward brunch.

"Hey, Jack," Riley says, claiming his attention. She points up at the sign, now fully unfurled over the couch.

_'Happy Father's Day, Jack!'_

For the second time in as many minutes Jack feels like he's been kicked in the chest by a mule. His mouth opens. Then closes.

Riley walks towards him. "Who'd you think it would be for? Elwood? James?"

Jack lets out a half-laugh, tears filling his eyes.

"We thought you'd caught us for sure when we were planning this," Riley says, slipping under his shoulder and wrapping an arm around Jack. "Guess we managed to surprise you after all."

Jack nods, not trusting his voice.

Using her free hand, she pulls Mac forward into the embrace.

Jack squeezes Riley back, tightly, and carefully slides his arm around Mac, mindful of the kid's sore chest. He can't stop the tears that are rolling down his cheeks. He feels both shoulders of his t-shirt growing wet.

"Happy Father's Day, big guy." 


End file.
